Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.